


Red Hat

by unsettled



Category: Alice in Wonderland (2010)
Genre: Bloodplay, Hats, Horror, M/M, Madness, Painplay, Violence, handkink, noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-20
Updated: 2010-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-10 04:54:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stayne doesn't take to failure well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Hat

**Author's Note:**

> A missing scene after Alice leaves the Red Queen's castle, between Hatter and Stayne. This was my first fic for these two, and of course it would be something as fucked up as this…

Stayne comes bearing the marks of his failures, so many failures today. Here, on the bone of his cheek, _for Alice_; here, on the plane of his jaw, _for the wretched beast_; here, blooming red as roses, _for the damned sword_, and here, hidden, a snarl of anger and rejection and lust, _I like large things, you're all mad_.

Madness. If he wasn't so very, very mad, Tarrant might not see the memories of Stayne's humiliation. If he wasn't quite, quite out of his mind, Tarrant might be frightened at the gleam of Stayne's eyes, a hint of madness to match his own, but Tarrant is merely an occasional tenet of his own mind. As it is, he is unprepared when Stayne speaks.

"Because of you and your untimely friends, I have been placed in a most precarious position," Stayne snarls. "You have robbed me of much; I shall have to take something in return," hissed, and he stalks forward, arm coming up and around to strike Tarrant backhanded to the ground.

Tarrant is stunned, but madness has prepared his body for action without interference from the mind. It scrambles away, scuttling across the tile, and Stayne is after him, too tall and too fast. Tarrant's hand darts behind him, searching for something, anything, and comes back around with a fistful of pins. Stayne ducks, and it buys him a moment, a moment is all Tarrant need to be up and running, after a more formidable weapon. Running, until the cuff at his ankle tightens, tightens long before it should, and he is on his face, staring at red tiles, a red that doesn't match the smear of blood he has left. He feels the tug and glances behind him; Stayne is smiling, a grim mockery of the expression, chain wrapped around one distorted hand. Slowly, slowly, Stayne hauls him backwards, and Tarrant is fighting now, kicking, flailing, grasping at dress forms and table legs, spools of ribbon and bodiless heads falling around him. Stayne is relentless, and when Tarrant secures a grip, he steps forward to kick at Tarrant's hands until they let loose once more. His shirt tightens, and Stayne has fisted a hand in the fabric to yank him upwards; a shove, and he is sprawled over the long table, faced with a fleet of hats, his hats, distorted for the bloody big head.

He lashes out, but Stayne is already there, shoving him down again, his face meeting wood grain, a sweeping arm throwing aside hats and ribbon and pins. A hand is tight around his throat, another is caught in the waistband of his pants, and Hatter is working on his collection of M's again, misery and malicious and mania sliding into his mind. His hands are spiders on the table, searching, searching, and just as fingers brush the rim of his hat, Stayne is there, snatching a hatpin and slamming it down, into the table, through the flesh of Tarrant's hand, pining it like some pale moth as it flutters helplessly. Tarrant cries out in shock and pain, body flinching around the wicked metal as another pain rips through him. He is dying, he is dying, and he is gone; he is not part of this weakening flesh, of this mercury laced body.

Stayne slides in, hard and fast, rutting against the unresponsive flesh like he cannot stand not to see it bleed. The noises Hatter is making are sweet to his ears, guttural expressions of pain and suffering, the sobbing of a small child, the screaming of a man who cannot die. He is tight and hot, pale skin opening before Stayne, another hole opening around the metal pin as Hatter's hand slides forward with each hard thrust. Stayne thinks of the tall girl from Umbridge, who has played him for a fool, and the man below him, who mocks him with teacups and perfume bottles, who has beaten him again and again, for all that his mind is in tatters, and he comes with his teeth leaving red grins in Hatter's flesh.

Tarrant returns to a shell of flesh, slumped beside the table, one hand still resting unwillingly on its surface, unable to move. He is aware of pain, in the most distant way; he opens his eyes, and there is a hat before him, crushed and ripped, gay feathers broken. He is caught in the hue of it, unsure whether he is the hat or the hat is him, before some reflex of memory prompts him to reach up and grasp the hatpin, to pull it out of wood and muscle. His hand falls to his lap limply, a stigmata granted by a betraying tool of his trade. Tarrant turns it this way and that, marveling at the torn flesh, crumpled like watered silk, or maybe velvet pile. He will make a hat, he thinks, a red hat, for a red queen, of flesh and blood and Stayne's head. He thinks she will like it.


End file.
